


Stop Me If You've Heard This One

by scatteringmyashes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2018-12-12 02:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11727834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatteringmyashes/pseuds/scatteringmyashes
Summary: A duo of Australian criminals join a previously disbanded military organization to try to help save the world. And also to get paid.One day, the loud Aussie laughs at the quiet Aussie and says, “That was closer than the time I almost blew up the Sydney Opera House!” The quiet one just grunts. Then the loud Aussie coughs and coughs and coughs until he can’t stand up anymore.That is, the time when Junkrat and Roadhog joined Overwatch for a paycheck and ended up staying for longer than they planned.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a commission. Very enjoyable, hope everyone likes it.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [here!](http://scatteringmyashes.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Rejected titles include “Junkrat Needs Healing” and “Knock Knock, It’s Your Deadly Childhood of Radiation Poisoning.” This isn’t nearly as funny as it sounds.

Junkrat has a shitty sense of humor. At least, that’s what he’s been told. He thinks he’s hilarious. It makes his sides hurt whenever Tracer gets an indignant look on her face and Mei’s lectures usually end in him sticking his tongue out at her and blowing a raspberry at her. McCree gets pissed off whenever someone messes with his fancy poncho -- Junkrat knows it’s called a se-ra-pee, but he likes to make McCree splutter -- and Hanzo glowered at the entirety of Overwatch when Junkrat mixed all his tea leaves into one big container. 

Winston pouts when Junkrat replaces his chunky peanut butter with smooth and Torbjörn has too many small objects lying around that are just asking for Junkrat to steal them. Literally, in one case. Junkrat’s pretty sure that the wrench started speaking to him and talking about how he’d be a better owner. Then again, that might also be one of the many side effects of being put on a chemical concoction produced by Overwatch’s own Doctor Mercy. It’s supposed to help him with the mood swings and the anxiety and the paranoia and everything else that goes on in his brain, but Junkrat wouldn’t know because he took it once and then decided to pour the rest down the toilet. 

If the creepy voice in the walls told Mercy about it, she hasn’t brought it up. She hasn’t tried giving him anything else, though, so Junkrat thinks she knows. 

The point is, though, that no one else appreciates Junkrat’s humor except for Roadhog but that doesn’t matter because Junkrat knows that he’s funny and he laughs at all his jokes, which is why he does it all. He doesn’t do things for other people. He does them for himself. 

Which is why he’s also not offended at all when no one in Overwatch trusts him and Roadhog alone in a room, why they aren’t allowed in the cockpit of a jet that’s flying them and a support team out to Numbani, why they are given half of the space even though arguably Hanzo and McCree and Mercy and Lucio need more space. 

Well, maybe not. Roadhog takes up more than enough and Junkrat elbows him in the side. 

“Oi, move over. You’re getting in my seat,” he complains, as if there isn’t an entire row just for the two of them.

“....” Roadhog says and then goes back to trying to sleep. Junkrat thinks he’s trying to sleep. His stomach is moving up and down and there’s a low noise coming from behind his mask, which Junkrat thinks is yawning but isn’t sure. 

“Aw, come on, mate. Don’t be like that. I’m bored,” Junkrat continues. He ignores the way Hanzo tenses and the glance that goes between Mercy and Lucio. McCree seems to move his hand a little closer to his peashooter, eyes glancing between Junkrat and Hanzo. 

The last time Junkrat was bored was back on base and one of the training rooms is still out of commission because of him. In his defense, he wasn’t trying to break it. He just thought that a fancy-shmancy organization like Overwatch would have less explosive training dummies. And walls. And better fire protection. And, really, enough common sense to keep someone like him away from the science labs. Or workshops. Or the hanger. Or the kitchen. Or -- well, anywhere on base.

Junkrat’s pretty sure that the entirety of Overwatch should know better than to let him walk around by himself. 

Really, the amount of shit he is taking is going to end up being a fee of its own, if they keep letting him wander around without voice-in-the-walls summoning anyone to stop him. Not like he is complaining, really, but still. These are the people who decided to save the world and they can’t even keep their own security measures in place. It is really a wonder that Talon or some other organization hasn’t wiped them off the map yet. 

Usually Junkrat wouldn’t take sides in something like this, but the money had been surprisingly good and the job sounded like fun. Break in, blow shit up, get out. Simple and easy.

He grins at Mercy, who is looking at him with an expression he can’t understand. He thinks it’s suspicion, which rubs him the wrong way though it’s also a completely fair opinion. Junkrat laughs a little at her, even throws in a jaunty wave to try to get her to relax.

“G’day, Doctor. Ready for some TLC? That is, some tender loving chaos,” he says, breaking out into laughter. Mercy huffs and looks away. 

The jet lands and the team rolls out. Junkrat and Roadhog are there to make mischief and cause chaos and draw the attention towards them. They even have permission to keep anything they steal, as long as it isn’t some priceless artifact or something Overwatch needs. While they do their thing on the first floor of a three hundred and fifty one story building, the actual members of Overwatch will go on floor two hundred and twelve and steal a bunch of data on something important. 

Junkrat wasn’t really listening during that part of the briefing. Sue him. 

“Ready, partner?” He asks Roadhog, a mad grin on his face. Roadhog just huffs, hoists his gun, and nods. 

The two of them run forward, Junkrat bringing his grenade launcher up and pulling the trigger as soon as he’s within range of the front doors. Then, suddenly, there are no more doors but a whole lot of screaming. Junkrat can’t help but cackle as he unloads the launcher into the room, watching the grenades bounce back and forth and turn the furniture into shrapnel. There wasn’t any specifications about casualties -- apparently everyone in the building is part of some super evil corporation that Junkrat should know about, which means that if some of them die it’s okay. 

Or something. Again, Junkrat wasn’t really listening when the talking gorilla was going on about what was good and what wasn’t good and which people to put bullets in and which people to explode. 

Right now, he’s more preoccupied with putting holes in nice furniture and freaking out the people inside the building than much else. Roadhog thrusts a rough burlap sack at the nearest guy, who gets the idea and pulls his wallet out and throws in his watch. 

“Make sure you get it all,” Junkrat reminds his partner in crime, as if Roadhog needs it. 

“Hmph.” Roadhog just goes over to a woman who is clutching her purse like it’ll save her life. He reaches out, takes it from her, and puts it in the sack. Then he grabs the stuffed bear off of the desk and puts that in the bag too. 

“Junkrat and Roadhog! The authorities are on their way to you. ETA five minutes and counting. Make some more mayhem and then get back to the rendezvous point,” a voice in Junkrat’s ear says. It’s the cheerful Brit -- Tracer -- who’s talking. She’s in charge of the mission, mostly because the old man isn’t able to because he’s too busy finishing a personal vendetta against the other old man who looks like a horror movie reject. 

In response to the alert, Junkrat pulls a steel trap from his bag and throws it at the ground near the entrance. Then he takes off up the stairs to head to the second floor, Roadhog coming up behind him. 

The security guards seem too terrified to put up a fight or to try for one and so there’s actually little blood drawn except from the shrapnel that Junkrat’s explosives send everywhere. He has caused plenty of chaos, though, and there’s no way the cops know that a whole crew of expert infiltrators are actually upstairs stealing top secret stuff. 

Junkrat laughs as one of the guards tries to shoot him, missing horribly thanks to his shaking fingers. “Need a hand? It seems I’ve got a leg up on you!” He falls into laughter, only to be knocked out of it when someone throws a pencil holder at him. It hits his head and shatters, falling to the ground in little pieces. Junkrat blinks as a little trickle of blood starts to come down his face. 

He spins around, ready to blow up the idiot who did that, only to see Roadhog throw a man across the room. It’s a big room and Roadhog is a big guy -- the man goes flying and smacks into the opposite wall with a sickening _crunch._ He doesn’t get up.

Roadhog lifts up his gun and points it at different people, chest heaving with anger. Junkrat lets out a high pitched laugh, bending over a little as he loses it. 

“Oh boy, oh boy, you sure screwed up now!” Junkrat shouts, jumping onto a desk and waving his gun around. “Show ‘em what happens to people who mess with us,” he adds, goading Roadhog with a wide grin. He imagines that, if he could see Roadhog’s eyes, the big man would be rolling them. He can’t see them but he can picture it well enough and it just makes Junkrat laugh harder. 

In the distance, sirens begin to wail. Junkrat ignores them as Roadhog stomps through the room towards him. “What are you doing?” Junkrat asks, raising an eyebrow and lowering his grenade launcher. He barely has any time to voice his confusion, though, as Roadhog sweeps him up and throws him over one of his shoulders. “Oi! Put me down! I’m not a sack of potatoes,” Junkrat protests.

Roadhog glares at him through the mask and starts walking anyway. Junkrat flails about, almost hitting him in the face with his prosthetic. 

“I can walk. I’m not paying you to carry me around.” Junkrat wants Roadhog to stop carrying him, really, he does. He is still entirely unprepared for Roadhog to drop him on the ground like… 

Well, like a sack of potatoes. 

The big lout doesn’t give Junkrat anymore time to complain, hauling him up by his shoulder strap and pushing him forward. Junkrat rolls his eyes and hussels, partially because the voice in his ear is telling him that the police have pulled up and are ready to storm the building. 

The other part is because it looks like the building’s personal security has decided to release a dozen omnic guards and those are much harder to blow up than squishy humans. Junkrat would know; he’s tried. 

So he scampers alongside Roadhog, letting his big friend blast the big bads away as they go back down to the first floor. The trap Junkrat set earlier is deterring the cops from running right in and he throws a second down just to be extra annoying. With that, the two of them run to the back to the room and Junkrat quickly sets a few explosives and blows a hole in the wall. 

“Let’s go!” He lets out a laugh and jumps through the wreckage. The hole isn’t quite big enough for all of Roadhog’s bulk and he forces his way through, the wall collapsing behind him. “Hello, luv,” Junkrat calls into his communicator, the strange weight in his ear hard to forget. “Where do we go now?” He asks. 

“Head east for three hundred meters and then head north! McCree can escort you from there,” Tracer replies. “And your accident is horrible,” she mutters. Junkrat just laughs more, actually stopping to do so. Or he tries to -- Roadhog grabs him by the shoulder strap and yanks him along once more. 

“Oi! ‘m precious cargo, I am!” He complains. Roadhog just grunts and ignores the slight wheezing sound that came out of Junkrat as the two of them scurry along. Behind them, the cops have finally made their way into the building and are now swarming around it. Soon they’ll be on the two’s trail and by then they need to be on a flight back to safety.

That flight being one provided by Overwatch, an organization that usually doesn’t condone as much violence as Junkrat and Roadhog tend to commit. That realization hits Junkrat right as they begin heading north. 

In hindsight, this probably wasn’t a great job to take. 

“Hey, Tracer,” he says with a frown, “How do we know you ain’t just pulling our chains and are gonna leave us here?” 

“We’re on route, just stick to the place Junkrat. Overwatch doesn’t leave people behind,” Tracer reassures him. Junkrat rolls his eyes even as he keeps running. It isn’t like he has much of a choice, after all. 

His heart is racing by the time they get to the supposed point, but Junkrat thinks it’s going to go into a full on heart attack when there’s no one there. Roadhog glances at him and Junkrat gnashes his teeth together, firing an errant grenade into the street. It blows a car up and sets off a few alarms. If the cops didn’t know where they were, they certainly do now. 

“Oi, Tracer, where’s your guy? You said he’d be here!” Junkrat shouts more into the air than actually into his ear. There’s no response. He sees Roadhog check his gun for amno and the big guy goes to look to see where they could run. It’s not good. This is a big city and they didn’t bring any vehicles of their own, relying on Overwatch to get them there and pull them out. 

That’s the last time they’ll make that mistake. Of course, they have to get out of this one first.

 _Fucking heroes, fucking goody-two shoes! You know what happens when you try to go straight,_ Junkrat thought, pacing back and forth. His bag shakes and clanks. With that and his muttering, Junkrat thinks he can be excused for screaming when McCree slides down a rope and greets them. 

“Whoa, there,” McCree says, holding his hands up and leaning back a little as he gets two dangerous weapons pointed at him. “Tracer sent me to pick you two fellas up. Someone’s jamming the signal but the jet is all ready to fly,” he explains. Junkrat glances at Roadhog, who shrugs. 

“Why am I paying you,” Junkrat mumbles as he motions for McCree to get climbing. 

“....” Roadhog is silent but by the way he tilts his head down, Junkrat knows what he’s thinking. Since they signed onto Overwatch, Junkrat stopped giving Roadhog so much as a cent. Both because Roadhog has long since admitted that he doesn’t really need to get paid to stay by Junkrat’s side and because the two are low on cash. That’s why they agreed to take this job in the first place -- it pays like shit and they’re arguably using their skills for _good,_ whatever that means, but they need anything they can get their hands on.

Turns out being internationally wanted criminals with huge bounties on their heads is sort of bad for business, who’dya thought?

Junkrat scrambles up the rope as soon as he had enough room, glaring up at McCree’s ridiculous spurs. They _are_ awfully shiny, but they also make too much noise. Maybe if Junkrat steals them, McCree would stop telegraphing his movements to everyone in a thirty yard radius... though he had managed to get the slip on Junkrat and Roadhog. 

_Who authorized that as his uniform anyway,_ Junkrat thinks as he climbs up the rope, feeling like an idiot. _It looks like something outta an American film._ He thinks about his limited exposure to American movies, none of which feature cowboys with cybernetic arms or the ability to shoot people in the head within six seconds. _An old American film. Or a few put together,_ he clarifies to himself. 

Roadhog slams a fist into the wall, sending a tremor up the bricks. Junkrat rolls his eyes but shimmies up the rope a bit faster. It isn’t strong enough to carry all three men, not with how big Roadhog is, so he’s waiting at the bottom. Nearby, the sound of sirens is growing closer.

“They’ll come fetch us when they can,” McCree explains, climbing up the ledge and reaching down to help pull Junkrat the rest of the way. Usually Junkrat would spit on someone who tried helping him if they weren’t seven foot three and had a thing for pigs, but the situation isn’t one for being picky so he takes the hand with only a little bit of grumbling. 

“Who came up with this, ‘cause I gotta grenade with their name on it,” Junkrat mutters, shaking his head as he begins pacing back and forth. “I thought you were professionals and instead everyone is running around like maniacs! That’s _my_ job.” He lets out a low whine and starts pulling at his hair. “We’re gonna get arrested! First time we actually go on the straight and narrow and look what happens.” 

Junkrat runs over to the edge of the roof and looks down at Roadhog. He’s about halfway up the rope but the flashing lights of police cars are starting to reflect off the walls. They’re close. 

“Hurry up, you useless lug!” Junkrat shouts down, cupping his hands together as if he actually needs the help. Roadhog glares and, in a different situation, probably would have dropped to the ground to start all over. 

As it is, he doesn’t really like the idea of being arrested anymore than Junkrat does, so he listens. 

“Tracer, we need an evac pronto,” McCree says into his communicator. 

“On it! Hold tight, you three,” Tracer replies. 

“We are close,” Hanzo adds. Junkrat takes his gun and fires two grenades into the alley. There’s shouting and he knows that he just gave away their position, but he doesn’t have it in him to care. Later, he’ll probably realize how stupid that was, but he’s angry and frustrated and scared. 

He doesn’t like to admit when he’s scared.

“We gotta get outta here! We trusted you -- if we get arrested --” 

“No one is getting arrested. Now calm down before you hurt someone there,” McCree tells him in the same tone of voice one would use with a spooked horse. Junkrat recognizes it and, momentarily, becomes furious. 

“Don’t talk to me like that, you fucking cowboy wanna-be!” Junkrat points his grenade launcher at McCree and immediately Peacekeeper is aimed at his chest. He has no doubt that McCree could kill him before he even took a step forward but before he can decide what to do, Roadhog hauls himself onto the roof and the Overwatch jet shimmers out of nowhere and begins to land. 

“We do not have time for your squabbles,” Hanzo says over the earpiece. Junkrat wonders how he can see before realizing there’s probably some camera somewhere that’s been hacked so Overwatch can see the roof. 

He flips the air off. There’s a snort and he’s pretty sure it comes from McCree, but Junkrat can’t tell.

The jet lands right as cops run into the alley, guns drawn. One of them sees the rope and shouts and Roadhog quickly yanks it up and wraps it around his arm as McCree dashes for the jet. Junkrat waits long enough to see that his friend is following before running off himself. 

He’s breathing heavily when Roadhog pats him on the back and the jet takes off, cloaking technology hiding them from anyone trying to find them. 

Junkrat glares at Roadhog and straightens up. He grits his teeth together and marches over to the cockpit, where Tracer is piloting the jet. She’s strapped in and he probably shouldn’t distract her since she’s literally keeping them in the air, but that doesn’t stop him from getting in her face and poking her right above her chronal accelerator. 

Or, as Junkrat likes to call it, her circle of time shenanigans. That makes more sense to him.

“You almost got me and my friend arrested out there!” He shouts, eyes narrowing.

“I can’t see, I’m gonna crash the jet!” Tracer yells, trying to look around him. Two hands wrap around Junkrat’s shoulders and pull him back -- they’re McCree’s and he looks pissed. 

“Step back, Junkrat. If you have a problem with her, you’ll talk it out after this is over.” His hand is on Peacekeeper, though its not drawn, and Junkrat would like to keep it that way. 

Still, Junkrat gives McCree the dirtiest look possible before going back to Roadhog and slapping him on the belly. “Didja see that, mate? That was a close one! That was closer than the time I almost blew up the Sydney Opera House!” Junkrat exclaims, anger seeping out as he remembers the glorious almost-explosion from several years ago. He got stopped because apparently national security didn’t agree with him destroying a landmark. 

Something about it being a symbol of hope and unity and the arts and yadda yadda yadda. It wasn’t very important at the time. 

But Junkrat cracks up at his own joke, thinking he’s the funniest thing since spontaneous explosion, even as Roadhog just grunts and the other eye him like he’s gone mad. He doesn’t notice as he spits out blood the first time but then his lungs seize up and his laughter turns to coughing. 

Suddenly he can’t breathe and he’s coughing up blood, it’s his blood all over the shiny metallic floor of the jet, and all he can think as his vision goes dark is that he really wasn’t paid enough for this bullshit. 

Roadhog catches him as he falls. 

\----

The next time Junkrat opens his eyes, he’s in the medical bay of Overwatch’s headquarters. That’s not what he registers first. He smells the antiseptic in the air, feels the IV in his arm, and squints against the bright light that covers the entire room. Then he tries to sit up. 

“Aw, what the hell, mate,” Junkrat swears, reaching up to clutch his head as everything begins to spin. He feels like he’s going to throw up and he almost does, but he is pushed gently and finds himself lying against pillows before his stomach can follow through on its urge. Junkrat hears someone say something, but it’s like trying to talk underwater. His head is fuzzy and he has to blink a few times to try to make sense out of what was perfectly understandable just a minute ago.

 _I’m in Gibraltar. There was a mission with Roadhog and some of Overwatch’s people -- that cowboy and the doctor and who else? Aw, dammit, I don’t remember._ Junkrat squeezes his eyes shut even as someone reaches out and touches his shoulder. _No, leave me alone! I don’t want to talk right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you after the explosion._

He begins chuckling at his own joke, but the movement hurts his chest too much and he soon stops. His throat is dry. He feels like he could drain an entire ocean. 

“What’s a fella gotta do to get a glass of water around here?” He asks, glancing around. He blinks when he sees Roadhog sitting there, concern barely noticeable behind his mask. “Why the long face?” Junkrat asks, laughing a little despite the pain. He tries to tell how much time has passed by glancing at the room, but he can’t. If Roadhog has been on the run for three hours or three days, he looks pretty much the same considering he has no hair and wears little enough clothing.

Still, Junkrat knows he should be touched or something that the big lug is there, presumably waiting for Junkrat to wake up. That’s something friends do for each other, apparently. Junkrat wouldn’t really know. 

Are he and Roadhog even friends? They travel together without paying one another, which is a start. But Junkrat is also pretty sure that sometimes Roadhog is tempted to turn him in for the bounty, in no small part thanks to the bad jokes that follow Junkrat around like lost puppies. Not like Junkrat considers them bad. The rest of the world just has different standards than he does, that’s all. 

Okay, most of his jokes are objectively bad. It comes with the childhood of doom and danger and constant threat of death from acute radiation poisoning. One tends to develop weird coping mechanisms. 

“Jamison Fawkes, codename Junkrat. Good afternoon.” Junkrat jumps in the bed, not sure where the voice is coming from as another wave of nausea hits him. Roadhog points up to the ceiling and Junkrat realizes it’s Athena, the creepy voice in the walls. “You have been asleep for seventy six hours under careful watch by Doctor Ziegler and Lucio Correia dos Santos. Doctor Ziegler has been alerted and will arrive shortly.” There is a moment of quiet and Junkrat scowls, crossing his arms despite the sharp twinge of pain from the IV.

“Fucking hell, that disembodied voice is never gonna be normal,” Junkrat mutters. He eyes Roadhog, who is still leaning forward and looking at him intently. “Whatddya want, you big pig?” Roadhog’s left ear twitches. Junkrat rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just get the good doctor here to give me a clean bill a’ health and then we’ll be outta here.” He falls back against the pillows, mumbling to himself as he shuts his eyes tight. 

He feels like he lays there for a while before boredom wins out over pain and he opens his eyes again. It’s still painfully bright and Roadhog is still sitting there, quiet and unmoving like a statue. Junkrat rolls his eyes and glances over the rest of the room. 

There are five other beds pressing up against his wall and a section of cabinets, all with careful labels with words like “sanitation supplies” and “syringes” and other things that makes a shiver go up his spine. Junkrat spots a sink, a biohazard waste disposal container, and a few other things that just remind him of hospitals. He figures that is probably a good thing, seeing as he is apparently needing medical assistance, but he doesn’t like it.

Junkrat has spent enough of his life being tested and being told he needs to get help for problems both mental and physical. He doesn’t want to spend anymore time in a hospital even if he is dying.

But he can’t get up. He barely could sit up a minute ago, for fuck’s sake. And despite what others might think, he isn’t goddamn stupid. 

Roadhog shifts in his seat and Junkrat’s eyes land on him, narrowing. 

“Yeah, laugh it up, big guy. You aren’t the one sitting here like a fucking invalid.” A moment. Junkrat scowls again and gropes along the bedside table, fingers gripping a plastic cup. He throws it at Roadhog. It just bounces off his considerable bulk. Roadhog doesn’t even move. “I know I’m here for a reason but you don’t have to make it a joke!” 

The door to the medbay slides open with a soft hiss and the nice German doctor walks in, her cowboy compadre following close being. Junkrat huffs and crosses his arms, or at least tries to. There is a sharp pain in the one with the IV and he hisses, dropping that arm to his side. Mercy comes over, steps soft against the tile as opposed to the slight noise McCree makes with his spurs.

 _Honestly, where does Overwatch find these losers?_ Junkrat wonders, ignoring the fact that he and Roadhog had been contacted by Overwatch while hunkering down in an abandoned warehouse. Money had been tight recently. Not a lot of people want to hire infamous criminals, even if they were absolutely insane. 

Or well, they aren’t hired because they are both legally insane in thirteen different nations, which is ridiculous. Junkrat hasn’t even ever been to Nicaragua and he’s pretty sure there are statutes against being diagnosed without being seen by a professional. 

“How are you feeling, Jamison?” Mercy asks. Roadhog crosses his arms and Junkrat flips him off. 

“Don’t laugh at someone in the hospital, it’s not funny,” Junkrat says with a fake scowl. He begins chuckling and a few stray tears come to his eyes, though that might be because of the pain that bursts out around his chest. “It’s hilarious! Ha, ha, ha!” He suddenly puts a hand over his mouth and coughs. 

And coughs. And coughs. 

It’s just like before, only worse because he knows what happens next but he doesn’t want to pass out again, doesn’t want to lose more time. Junkrat knows, has always known, that it’s only a matter of time before the radiation catches up to him but he doesn’t want it to be like this. He doesn’t want to cling onto his waking moments like a sailor in a storm clinging to a bit of wreckage. 

“Athena, please prepare an injection of…” Junkrat can’t hear the rest of what Mercy says, his vision growing spotty as he struggles to breathe. He can see red on his hands and his chest and it takes him a frighteningly long moment to realize that he is looking at his own blood. Everything is hazy and he can’t see Roadhog being shooed away, but he can sense his friend leaving. 

Junkrat tries to turn to look for him, but two surprisingly strong but gentle hands push him back down on the bed. He opens his mouth to complain but there’s the taste of iron on his tongue and it stops him. His head is pounding, like the time Roadhog accidentally threw him into a wall in order to stop him from blowing his other leg off. 

Suddenly a sharp pain goes up his side but then everything is thrown into sharp relief, like someone reset all the settings in his brain to ‘hyper aware.’ Junkrat wheezes as air rushes into his lungs and he starts being able to feel all three of his remaining limbs again. The room is back into clarity and, as he thought, Roadhog is nowhere to be seen. McCree is standing off to the side, giving the good doctor her space as she pulls a needle out of Junkrat’s side. 

He winces just looking at it, but Mercy is quick to bandage it up and give him a small smile. “You should feel better now. That won’t last forever, but it will keep the nausea and coughing at bay for now.” 

“What’s wrong with me, doc? Give me the bad news, how long do I have to live?” Junkrat means it as a joke but the look on Mercy’s face is anything but funny. Even McCree seems uncomfortable, shifting a little. 

Junkrat knows that he came here to protect Mercy in case Junkrat lost it again, just like he did in the jet. He can’t find it in him to be offended. 

“We will use all the resources we have at our disposal to help you, Jamison. You are not alone.” Mercy places what’s supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. Junkrat glares. 

“Don’t call me that,” Junkrat says with a scowl. Mercy nods and glances back at McCree. “You brought him because you think I’m that dangerous? I’m touched, doc, really. Can’t do much without my good ol’ explosives though,” Junkrat continues, waving his non-needle stabbed arm around.

Mercy purses her lips. McCree spreads his arms and Junkrat realizes that, surprisingly, he’s unarmed. Well. He has both arms, if someone counts the prosthetic, but he doesn’t have his gun. That’s not what Junkrat expected. 

“He is here in case you begin thrashing again. Initially, when we brought you here, you refused to lay down and had to be restrained,” Mercy says. Junkrat can’t tell if she’s lying. He’s glad that, at the very least, he wasn’t tied down when he woke up.

If he had been, he knows that he would have had a very… strong reaction. Junkrat’s not the kind of guy who likes to be tied down with anything, whether it be obligations to others or ropes. 

“So what’s wrong with me besides the obvious?” Junkrat asks, chuckling a little as if it’s the funniest thing in the world. Mercy has, for a moment, a pained look on her face but she hides it pretty well. He figures she’s had to give bad news in the past and he doesn’t know why this is so difficult for her. It’s not like he’s her friend or important to Overwatch. Hell, he doesn’t know why they’re helping him. Most places would kick out a sorry, hopeless cause like himself.

“McCree, why don’t you make sure Mr. Rutledge is comfortable outside? He has been here since Junkrat was,” Mercy tells her friend. McCree nods, tilting his hat at Junkrat, and leaves. His spurs are like cat bells, almost, and Junkrat wonders if that’s their point. To stop McCree from sneaking up on people. It seems weird to him.

Junkrat probably doesn’t have much ground to be calling other people weird, but he’s perfectly normal!... for the Australian outback, maybe. 

“Athena, pull up the files on Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes,” Mercy says, pulling Junkrat out of his thoughts. A holographic screen suddenly appears at the end of Junkrat’s bed. 

There’s his mug shot -- probably the only official photo Overwatch has of him -- and his various stats on the side. Mercy reaches up and grabs a tab out of thin air and brings it closer. She expands it and Junkrat sees a lot of scientific mumbo-jumbo. He understands some of it. After all, he wouldn’t have lasted this long without knowing a little bit about what has happened to him. But besides the stuff that’s clearly labeled like “symptoms” and “diagnosis” the rest is all a mystery to him. 

He does linger on the fact that “radiation poisoning” is not the only possible cause listed. There’s also “poor diet” and “previous injury” and “brain cancer.” That scares him.

“Something’s wrong with my brain, doc? You don’t say,” Junkrat taunts, covering up his fear with a joke.

“We will need to do more scans now that you are awake. if you are feeling less nauseous, I would like to make sure you eat a stable diet and take these pills.” Mercy walks back over to the cabinets and opens a few drawers. She prepares a small tray with a plastic cup of water and another cup of little colorful ovals that Junkrat doesn’t want. 

He doesn’t want to die, though, so he only scowls and swallows them when Mercy gives them to him. 

“I better be getting the good grub, none of that usual hospital junk. I saw the kitchen in this place,” he grumbles. Mercy manages a small smile. 

“This is not a hospital, Junkrat. This is Overwatch.” 

“Is that supposed to comfort me or something?” 

Mercy doesn’t seem as surprised as Junkrat expected. She just shrugs and moves the tray off of his lap. He’s still lying down but sitting up sounds like too much effort right now. His side still hurts from the needle. 

“I will send Lucio to bring you food. What would you like? It is important that you have a balanced diet with plenty of nutrients --” 

“Tim Tams and a meat pie,” Junkrat interrupts. He doubts that either will be provided, but dammit if he’s gonna be stuck in what is essentially a mini-hospital, he’s gonna ask for something to make him comfortable. 

“All right.” Mercy nods and steps away from the bed. “I will see what we can do. Is there anything else you need?” 

Junkrat thinks about it. He’d really like to stop being an inch from death, that sounds nice. He’d also like all of his explosives back so he can get out of there with Roadhog. Overwatch still owes him and Roadhog money, which he’d like to have before he dies. 

Literally. That’s not a figure of speech.

He swallows and shrugs. 

“A good book, doc? Believe it or not I’m a big fan of sci-fi. Especially the old stuff,” he says. Mercy promises to do her best and then leaves.

He’s all alone. Roadhog doesn’t return. Junkrat tells himself it doesn’t matter. 

It does.

\----

Roadhog isn’t ordered, per se, by McCree or Mercy or anyone to go get some rest and eat. But he is strongly encouraged and he’s told that Junkrat needs to rest and is being taken care of by the best of the best. That is, one actual doctor and a world famous celebrity who’s taken to being a vigilante and healer on the side. 

It’s stupid but Roadhog also knows better than to argue. There’s no point and he doesn’t want to antagonize the people who are taking care of his pain in the ass. 

He finds himself sitting in what passes as a common room. There’s a beer in one hand and an empty bag of chips next to the other. The television is on, but he isn’t really watching. It’s playing some stupid television show, something about omnics making friends with some human children and going on adventures. 

He hates it. 

The door opens and Lucio and D.Va -- and what kind of a nickname is that, D.Va? -- walk in. They stop when they see Roadhog and he grunts, shifting so he’s crushing the armchair a little more. It isn’t sagging nearly as much as normal chairs, but he still has enough bulk to make it less than stable. 

Lucio and D.Va stop talking as they come and hover by the television. They keep trading looks and Roadhog wants them to just spit it out and say what they want. That’s the good thing about Junkrat. The asshole won’t ever shut up. In contrast, Roadhog’s pretty sure he’s said a total of three words to him. Aloud, at least. Junkrat is one of the few people who seem to actually be able to pick up on what Roadhog says without opening his mouth. 

“Uh, is it cool if we use the TV?” Lucio asks, waving a little as if he needs help getting Roadhog’s attention. 

Roadhog grunts. Lucio glances at D.Va, who noticeably shrugs. It takes effort, but Roadhog resists the very real urge to facepalm. He’s been spending too much time with Junkrat if that’s his first reaction. 

The two kids decide that Roadhog would say something if he didn’t want them there, so they sit down and start messing with the TV. They’re not wrong. Soon enough, Roadhog is subjected to the two of them pulling up some video game involving people in unrealistic cars going around unrealistic tracks. D.Va raises a controller. He only recognizes it from having run past a game store when robbing a mall once. Video games aren’t really popular in the Outback anymore, considering that most electronics are either weapons or trying to kill you because they’re sentient or both. 

“Do you want to play with us?” She asks.

It’s not immediately obvious because of his mask, but Roadhog stares. He knows she’s being serious and that’s the most confusing part. 

“I, uh, I know your friend is hurt. But whenever I’m sad, video games help.” D.Va holds it out for another moment before huffing and setting it down, within easy reach for Roadhog. “Whatever. You can just watch too, that’s fine.” 

She and Lucio pick characters and a few maps before the game even starts, and soon it’s like Roadhog isn’t even there. They get incredibly focused, but they still joke and tease one another. They’re kids, essentially, to Roadhog. He doesn’t get how Overwatch lets them fight. Then again, Roadhog was killing when he was their age, so maybe it shouldn’t be such a surprise.

That doesn’t stop him from sitting there, half in wonder, as the two of them argue about whether or not it’s better to be faster or more sturdy. 

The door opens again and Hanzo and Genji walk in, talking quietly to one another in Japanese. Roadhog shifts and stands, deciding this is a few too many people for him. As he goes to head to his room, he actually is stopped by Hanzo. 

“Roadhog, I was wondering how your companion is healing,” Hanzo says. He gets a slight shrug in reply. Honestly, all Roadhog knows is that Junkrat is being watched over by the doctor and… well, apparently not her helper, since he’s currently shouted at D.Va for distracting him, but still. It’s better than what Roadhog could do. He’s not stupid, despite what people like to think, but he doesn’t have as much medical knowledge as an actual doctor. 

“Angela is a very intelligent woman,” Genji comments, his voice slightly robotic from his visor. He unsettles Roadhog. Even if he is mostly human, he looks too much like an omnic for Roadhog to ever be comfortable around him. “She will help your friend.” 

Hanzo seems uncomfortable with the way the conversation has gone and Roadhog isn’t sure why, but he just grunts and walks out. This time, no one stops him. He wonders if he will be allowed into the medbay if he goes in, or if Athena has been told to bar him entrance. 

Hell, he doesn’t even know if Junkrat is awake. He doesn’t know if Junkrat is feeling up for a talk. And what would he even do? They don’t discuss feelings or whatever they are. 

Roadhog grumbles and heads towards the kitchen. He’s far too sober to deal with this. 

\----

Day two, three, and four are full of tests and injections and pills and lectures about diet and rest. Junkrat wants to rip his hair out by hour two of day two, but Mercy is a good doctor and gives him plenty of time to relax in between everything else. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still hate every second of it, but thankfully Roadhog comes and lets him complain. The company helps. Roadhog isn’t chatty by anyone’s standards, but it’s better to talk to him than to talk to the walls.

When he isn’t there, Junkrat sometimes talks to the walls anyway. He knows that Athena is monitoring him from the way Mercy asks her questions, but it’s too difficult to explain that he knows the walls won’t reply. That’s not the point. 

Just sometimes the silence is a little too loud so he’s gotta fill it, that’s all. 

He does get a few books, though, actual ones too. The paper feels a bit weird under his fingers and the plots are all rote, but he reads them anyway. Junkrat uses them to have more to complain about when Roadhog visits or when Mercy asks how he’s doing. Still, if he has to read yet another book about a group of intrepid space explorers who get stuck on a planet after their engine breaks, he’s going to go crazy. 

Well. Crazier than he already is. 

“We are going to try something new,” Mercy says on day five, after Junkrat’s condition hasn’t improved. It hasn’t gotten worse either, which he considers a good thing, but he still can barely walk and sitting up and flipping people off is about all he can do in terms of physical activity. 

“What, sick of me already? And here I thought we had something special,” Junkrat teases. Mercy rolls her eyes, far too used to him already. The other doc, the music doc, seems to not know what to make of Junkrat. He’s not shy, per se, but he isn’t as loud as Roadhog describes him. 

Junkrat prefers Mercy anyway. Better the doctor you know than the doctor you don’t, he’ll always say. 

“Your scans have not shown anything that implies cancer, which is good, but you are still much weaker than I would expect. And people with your condition usually…” She hesitates, trying not to say anything that will frighten Junkrat. Joke’s on her, he’s already terrified out of his fucking mind. 

“I know, doc, you already gave me the bad news. What’s the good news?” He asks, encouraging her to move on. 

“Well, you have already displayed a remarkable amount of resistance, all factors considered. I believe that if we are able to find a stem cell donor, we may be able to help boost your already high tolerance to radiation and hopefully combat the symptoms. It will not cure you, per se, but, quite frankly, I do not think you can be entirely cured.” Mercy swallows and adjusts her grip on her clipboard. The fact that she has an actual clipboard in this day and age is ridiculous. 

He doesn’t laugh. 

The silence stretches and Mercy asks if Junkrat needs her to explain anything. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. There’s no wave of nausea because it’s a good day. He even managed to keep his Tim Tams down. The first day he ended up throwing up all over the floor. A bot had to clean it up and Junkrat doesn’t feel too bad about that. 

“You seem hesitant,” Mercy comments.

“No shit, doc,” Junkrat replies. “You think you’re gonna find someone willing to donate a few ol’ cells to help little ol’ me?” He asks. He huffs and crosses his arms. Now that he’s used to the IV, it barely even hurts. “Besides, you have to find a match. You’ve got what, sixteen people here?”

“Eighteen including you. Statistically, there is a good chance of finding a match.” 

Junkrat snorts. “I’m from the Outback, mate. Besides my buddy, who do you think is even gonna come close?” 

“We will find someone. We can always access other databases,” Mercy tells him. “I need to take samples from your bone marrow for testing. By tomorrow, Athena should be able to find a match.” 

“Are you gonna test everyone here too?” Junkrat asks. 

“Everyone who is a possible donor,” Mercy confirms. 

It sounds like a hair-brained scheme full of half-science and half-baked assumptions, the sort of thing that someone would come up with when they’re out of options. That of course means it sounds a little terrifying and, thus, is absolutely perfect. Junkrat grins and spreads his arms.

“Well then, doc, what’s stopping you?” 

\----

It turns out that testing people for possibly being a match to Junkrat is harder than it sounds, even in this day and age. While he’s waiting, Mercy approves of him being allowed to leave the medbay so at least he doesn’t feel like he’s going to go even farther off the deep end. The members of Overwatch, Junkrat soon finds out, have a system. It’s not official but there’s a general time for meals, certain hours where certain members are in the lounge, and so on and so forth. Training happens according to a weekly rotation, the marksmen occasionally have contests and D.Va and Torbjorn are always making improvements to her mech, but other than that it doesn’t seem too regulated. 

Nothing like Junkrat expected, honestly. It’s like Overwatch is a group of friends trying to save the world, not a super secret organization that is extremely illegal.

Junkrat likes illegal. Regulated, not so much. Overwatch, as he gets to know it, isn’t too bad. Still doesn’t mean he wants to be locked up and forced to stay with the illicit consortium of champions but it could be worse. 

He can’t beat D.Va in any of her games but there’s bombs involved -- not real ones, digital ones -- so he ends up being pretty good at it anyway. Junkrat even manages to drag Roadhog into playing at one point, though his hands are almost too big for the controllers which gives him difficulty. Torbjorn approaches Junkrat at one point to talk about explosives, which apparently terrifies the rest of the base until Junkrat promises them he isn’t actually making anything.

“Not that you’ll see, anyway!” He adds with a manic laugh. On the outside, everything is great. He’s even eating different kinds of food, though he avoids anything with raw fish in it even if Hanzo and Genji _and_ McCree and -- ok, like almost all of Overwatch says it’s fine. Junkrat’s not stupid though. He’s already doused with deadly levels of radiation, he ain’t gonna test his luck on some _fish._

He isn’t allowed to participate in missions of course and he can’t really train because if he runs too fast or works too hard his lungs stop working properly, Sometimes he would have coughing fits and more than once he got blood all over the floor or wall, but besides that? He is fine. 

Fine. Nothing wrong with him.

Except for the, you know, slowly dying bit. 

Mercy gives him pills every day and Junkrat takes them with limited complaining. 

“What’s this one, doc?” He asks, holding up a yellow oval.

“It should help your headaches.” Mercy adjusts her stethoscope and listens to Junkrat’s heart. He doesn’t speak. This is already becoming routine. He knows what’s expected of him and, out of fear of the alternative, he goes along with it. He doesn’t try to rock the boat or blow a hole in everyone’s plans.

Mercy takes the stethoscope away from his chest and jots something down on a clipboard. Junkrat swallows the yellow pill. He has to do them all one at a time because there’s so many of them that he’ll just choke and cough them up if he tries to take them together. Technically he could combine them but he likes looking at each of them, trying to memorize that blue squares are for his fatigue and green triangles are to keep his iron levels decent. 

“What about this?” Junkrat asks, looking at a white and blue pill that he swears is new. Mercy glances over and squints. He pinches it between his thumb and pointer finger. It’s smaller than any of the others and he’s almost certain it’s new.

“Oh, that is for your mood.” 

Junkrat raises an eyebrow. “My mood?” 

“Yes.” Mercy doesn’t seem uncomfortable despite the look he’s giving her. She’s probably had to deal with worse, though what’s worse than a mentally unstable explosives expert who has an undisclosed amount of time left to live Junkrat isn’t sure. “It is common for patients with severe health conditions to experience drops in mood. Low motivation, low energy, occasionally suicidal thoughts. I thought that we could try to preempt them.” 

“What.” It isn’t a question. Junkrat is still holding the pill but now, instead of being intrigued, he looks disgusted. “I didn’t mention _nothing_ about any mood swings, doc. I don’t want any magic mumbo-jumbo pills messing with my head!” Junkrat grabs the rest of the pills he’s supposed to take and throws them at her, jumping off the bed. His fingers itch for his grenades but, while he has his harness, the explosives are in an Overwatch locker. 

It’s supposed to be safer that way. It is, but not for him. 

“Junkrat, please calm down--”

“Isn’t that what your pills are supposed to do, doc? Keep me calm and happy while you say you know how to help me?” A bolt of fear strikes Junkrat and he goes still. “I’m gonna die, aren’t I? There’s no cure, you’re just keeping me happy and ignorant until I die!” He holds his head in his hands and doubles over, stomach heaving. He can’t tell if it’s all in his head or if it actually hurts. _Does it matter at this point?_ He doesn’t think it does. 

“Athena, please alert --” Junkrat doesn’t hear the rest. The room is spinning and he’s hyperventilating. His senses aren’t consistent, vision going in and out along with his hearing and balance. One moment, everything is sharp and he feels like he can make out each speck of dirt on the floor. The next, everything is fading to black but the smell of bleach and sanitizing spray is forcing its way up his nose, filling his head. 

Junkrat can’t take it. He runs for the door, slamming into it when it didn’t slide open like it usually does. He pounds on it once, twice, and it hisses open. He dashes through, heading down the hall. He doesn’t stop when someone calls his name or when he shoulder-checks someone into the wall. He doesn’t stop, he just needs _out._

It was a mistake to stay at Overwatch so long, it was a mistake to trust them. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. He doesn’t know what Roadhog was doing, letting them stay. It was bound to end like this, with them trying to medicate him into being a compliant drone before letting him die from the poison deep in his veins. 

Someone’s yelling his name. Someone’s yelling his name and following and Junkrat doesn’t like it. He bursts into a room -- there’s a couch and he dives behind it. He isn’t strong enough to flip it over but there’s a table that he can flip and he does. It’s not much of a shield, but it makes him feel better. 

A large shape appears in the doorway and Junkrat grabs the nearest object -- a pillow -- and throws it at the person. Roadhog doesn’t even bother trying to move, just watches as it bounces off of his considerable bulk. Junkrat blinks, realizing where he is. 

He’s in the common room and Mei is staring at him, her popcorn scattered across the floor and the bowl upside down several feet away. She’s pressed up as far as she can get and Hanzo, who has put himself between them, looks like he’s ready to take Junkrat down if he so much as twitches the wrong way. 

Roadhog steps forward, hands out and open and about as unaggressive as someone over 210 centimeters can appear. Behind him, Reinhardt and McCree run up. They both don’t look armed but there’s now three people blocking Junkrat’s way out and he has no explosives and he doesn’t like it, not at _all._

“Get outta my way,” Junkrat hisses. His sides hurt from running and he feels a little light-headed, but he won’t let them take him. He won’t let the good ol’ _doctor_ touch him or his head. Junkrat’s not stupid, he knows what the doctors say. He knows that things are wrong with him. And while he might let them fix his body enough so he doesn’t die, he doesn’t want them touching his head.

“Junkrat, calm down,” Hanzo says, sounding like a man talking to a wild dog. Junkrat knows that he looks like one right now. His entire body is tight with tension and he’s gritting his teeth so hard he’s surprised the others can’t hear it. 

He wants to calm down, he wants to just leave, but he can’t because there are people in his way and they _aren’t fucking moving!_

With a shake of his head, Junkrat advances on Roadhog. There’s a moment when it doesn’t seem like he’s going to move, like he’s going to just stand there, but then they make eye contact. Well, Junkrat looks right where Roadhog’s eyes should be. His mask hides any expression but Junkrat knows the exact moment when Roadhog knows what he has to do. 

Roadhog steps back and, using his bulk and intimidating presence, forces Reinhardt and McCree back. It’s a tight fit and Junkrat can’t help but think that one of them are going to grab him, but he squeezes by and then he’s free. 

Running without a destination, Junkrat leaves. He has none of his stuff and he doesn’t know the area very well and he’s slowly dying from his childhood of steady exposure to dangerous levels of radiation, but he doesn’t know if he’ll come back.

All he can think is _good riddance_ as Athena opens the doors for him all the way to the outside of the Overwatch base. He takes a deep breath of the fresh air, something he’s had frightfully little of the last few days, and grins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, well, better late than never right? 
> 
> Anyways, I started college up again and it was my senior year so I had that going as well as unbelievably rotten mental health so that's why this has taken basically a year. 
> 
> Sorry about that. 
> 
> But here it is! I hope you enjoy.

Roadhog wants to go after him, of course. He wants to take their things, throw them in a burlap sack, kick their motorcycle into gear, and chase after that stupid idiot who ran off instead of staying and getting help. Roadhog wants to drag Junkrat back to Overwatch and make sure he gets the help he needs because, suspicious and untrusting as Roadhog is, he knows he doesn’t have the skill or knowledge to keep his friend alive if something is wrong with him. 

But that is the last thing Junkrat needs. He needs space and he needs to feel like he’s in control of _something._ It’s a feeling that Roadhog knows well. They both grew up in a world that was ready to kill them at the slightest sign of weakness or madness and, family or not, at the end of the day it was the group that mattered. Not the individual. There’s a reason Roadhog and Junkrat got thrown out. 

It’s not a good feeling, letting Junkrat do this. But there’s only so much trouble even Junkrat can get into, seeing as they’re on a small island, and Roadhog is forced to accept that Overwatch can keep an eye on him and dispatch people if something seems like it’s about to go horribly wrong. 

Right now, though, Roadhog is stuck sitting in the monitor room. It’s usually where someone can hack into cameras to watch missions and issue orders, but right now Athena is focused on the little island. Specifically, one mad fool who seems to be pacing back and forth and talking to himself. 

Tracer looks concerned, as if Roadhog hasn’t seen this a hundred times before, and she keeps zipping around to look at different screens, though they all show the same thing just from different angles. She’s giving him a headache but he doesn’t know how to tell her to stop, not without using words that are more unfamiliar than they should be. So he just sits there, in a chair made for someone much smaller, and watches the monitors as if they can tell him how Junkrat is doing.

Physically, setting aside the radiation that is slowly killing him and the fact that he’s talking to himself, Junkrat looks fine. In fact, he looks about the healthiest that he’s looked in the last few days. Maybe it had been a mistake to keep him inside the whole time, but there isn’t anything they can do about it now. 

Junkrat is well and truly out on his own, at least until the good doctor gives the word that he needs to be brought in for his own safety. Roadhog has seen what that looks like. Not to Junkrat, no, but to other people whom the Junkers declared unfit to be around the public. They either get kicked out or brought into ‘safe keeping.’ 

Roadhog isn’t sure which would be worse. Junkrat wandering around the island of Gibraltar for the rest of his assumedly short life or being dragged back to the Overwatch base, strapped into a bed, and forcibly filled with medications until he can’t remember who he is or why he hates both of those things so much.

It probably says a lot about Roadhog that he can’t decide which he would prefer. He has no doubts about which Junkrat wants. It’s probably a good thing that Junkrat isn’t the sole person in charge of his life. 

The door hisses open. Roadhog glances at the reflection in one of the monitors that is turned off. The doctor and the gorilla walk in, already deep in discussion. 

“How long can Junkrat survive without treatment?” Winston asks. He adjusts his glasses and nods at Roadhog as he sits at a special chair. It’s clearly not meant for any human, even one of Roadhog’s size and build, and Winston gets comfortable as he types on the console. 

“For most people, I would say days. But for someone with his history, I don’t know. He should be dead already with the amount of radiation I detected,” Mercy replies. She glances at Roadhog, as if he is going to do something to her for stating the facts. It doesn’t surprise him. He thinks, sometimes, that if he were examined he would have at least the same amount of radiation deep in his bones.

That should concern him. It should concern him, too, that he doesn’t care. He’s lived with death all his life. What’s one more thing that could kill him? 

“What do you recommend, Angela?” Winston pulls up the weather report for the next seven days. It’ll be nice out, nothing that could kill a person, especially not someone from the Outback. “I don’t like the idea of leaving him out there alone.”

“If you want someone to talk to him, sir, I’m sure that any one of us would be willing to go,” Tracer chimes in, sliding to a halt. Roadhog lets out a sigh, shifting in his chair. He wants to leave, he doesn’t want to be stuck there when they talk about Junkrat like he’s some kind of wild animal, but this is the only place Roadhog can see his friend. 

That’s not fair. They’re more than friends. They’re companions. Partners. Roadhog isn’t sure what word could be used to describe them. He doesn’t know what he _wants_ to use. 

“As long as he does not hurt himself, I am willing to wait a few days, but it would be best to have him return as quickly as possible. The longer he is alone, the greater chance there is for him to become injured or malnourished.” Mercy frowns. “Roadhog, do you think it would be wise for us to attempt to give him supplies? I would feel better about this if he had water or food or even shelter.” 

Anything they give Junkrat will probably be rejected at best and blown up at worst. It’s not in a Junker’s nature to accept handouts or at least anything that is seen as a handout. So Roadhog just shrugs. If Junkrat were there, he’d understand what Roadhog is trying to say. As it is, Mercy and Winston just exchange looks. Now it’s like Roadhog isn’t there. He’s not happy with that and he already isn’t happy. 

Roadhog stands, grunts, and moves to leave. 

“Where are you going?” Tracer asks, zipping in front of him. She isn’t stopping him from leaving, but she is between him and the door. For a moment, Roadhog feels thrown off. He doesn’t really want to have to push his way past her, even though he’s unlikely to hurt her. In the last few days, Junkrat has actually been getting along with the other members of Overwatch. Well, as much as someone like him can, really. 

“Lena, if Roadhog wishes to rest then he should. There should be food in the kitchen,” Mercy says, turning around so she can face him. There’s a small smile on her face. She’s trying to be sympathetic. A moment ago she was ignoring him. Roadhog hasn’t forgotten that. “Please let Athena know if you need anything. She can reach any of us.” 

Not wanting to be rude, Roadhog grunts and leaves. He isn’t stopped by Tracer or anyone else for that matter. He makes it all the way to his room, the one he was sharing with Junkrat, when he stops. 

The door is programmed to open only to their handprints. Tracer showed them how it wouldn’t open for her and Roadhog had decided that was good enough. Overwatch has proved itself loyal enough, after all. Junkrat had trapped the entrance multiple times, just to be sure. Roadhog knows how to get through them, know how to spot anything Junkrat makes too. There’s a certain flair he has, after all. A specific type of madness that, despite everything, Roadhog has actually grown used too. 

He sighs and opens the door. It slides open with a hiss and Roadhog carefully steps over the two tripwires, past the seemingly innocent looking can, and avoids the pressure plate that Junkrat installed after about ten minutes of swearing and fifteen of cackling. Roadhog goes over to his bed and sits. It sags under his weight but he isn’t concerned even as he lays back and stares up at the ceiling. 

He’s alone. He can take his mask off if he wants. He can do any-fucking-thing he wants. For years he’s complained about having to follow Junkrat around, about having to listen to his hair-brained schemes. Ever since the two of them were kicked out of Junkertown, Roadhog has found himself dragged across the entire world. 

While some people might like travel, Roadhog’s never wanted that. He might have been allowed to stay in Junkertown too, but that would have meant acting different. It would have meant adhering to the politics of Junkertown and the hierarchy and, well, Roadhog’s never done well with rules. But that doesn’t mean he wanted to leave and go all the way to the Americas or to Africa or to anywhere that wasn’t Australia. 

Now that Junkrat has run off, Roadhog can do whatever he wants. 

So he sighs and stares up at his ceiling, wondering what on Earth he’s going to do to get that stupid asshole back. 

\----

It turns out, much to everyone’s surprise except for Roadhog, who once saw Junkrat make an explosive big enough to level a football stadium out of some basic cleaning supplies and a stuffed moose, that Junkrat is perfectly fine surviving on his own. The crime rate in Gibraltar goes up a little since he’s stealing everything, but whether out of common sense or something else Junkrat hasn’t killed or injured anyone. Overwatch is still monitoring him like a hawk and if he so much as sneezes the wrong way, Roadhog knows that he’ll be dragged back whether he wants to or not, but for now he can enjoy his freedom.

Or at least his illusion of freedom. After a certain point, Roadhog figures it doesn’t really matter. 

He, on the other hand, is bored stiff. 

The members of Overwatch have no idea how to talk to him, that much is obvious. D.Va tries but she ends up just huffing and puffing and going to play video games. Zenyatta has offered to meditate with him, only to get silence and perhaps a burp or two, depending on how Roadhog is feeling that day. Genji and Hanzo circle around him like wary wolves, not quite sure if this stranger should be accepted into their pack. Winston is a bumbling fool, at least more so than his genius personality would hint at. 

Roadhog knows he should appreciate them caring enough about his well being to try to be friends. He should care that they haven’t just kicked him out yet to wander around with his friend. But, really, all Roadhog wants to do is knock some sense into Junkrat’s sometimes empty head. 

He doesn’t. Not because he particularly cares what Junkrat is doing but because he knows, sometimes, that Junkrat just needs time to himself. Of course, that being said this is starting to push the boundaries of what Roadhog considers acceptable isolation. 

At least the good old doctor, as Junkrat would say, has not stopped her efforts to find a solution to Junkrat’s very bad, no good, horrible problem. Unfortunately there doesn’t seem to be an easy fix but, well, Roadhog wouldn’t have expected anything less.

“I’m sorry,” Mercy says when she sits Roadhog down. He’s almost too big for the usual examination table. It buckles under his weight and he can’t help but feel like if he tilts too far one way it’ll come crashing down. So he tries to sit as still as possible, not like Mercy ever keeps him for too long. “You aren’t a match.” 

Roadhog frowns. Mercy can’t see it because of his mask and she isn’t Junkrat, who seems to always know what Roadhog is trying to say before he even says it. 

“I still have several of the others who may be able to donate their stem cells. Of course, even if we find a perfect donor we still have the issue of convincing Junkrat to return to our facility.” Mercy purses her lips even as she dashes around, putting papers aside and putting syringe heads in biohazard containers. Roadhog wonders if he can just leave. It’s probably incredibly rude to just walk out on your doctor, but he also doubts that anyone would be surprised. “Do you know, Roadhog, if Junkrat will return?” 

If Roadhog knew, he wouldn’t tell her. That’s his first thought. His second thought is that no one knows what Junkrat is going to do, not even Junkrat. It’s obvious how little Mercy really knows about him if she’s asking Roadhog for his opinion.

The third thing Roadhog thinks is that, honestly, if Junkrat doesn’t come back he’s going to hunt down that little bastard and drag him back to Overwatch kicking and screaming. They’re the only people who are willing to help two internationally wanted criminals for nothing. Out of the goodness of their hearts or _something._ It’s pretty bizarre and he’s still not sure if he can trust them, but Roadhog knows better than to look a gift gun down the barrel. 

Junkrat would never forgive him if he did that. Roadhog doesn’t think he cares. He’d rather have the fucking bastard alive and semi-well than dead in a ditch. Does that make him a bad friend? Hopefully not. 

Roadhog’s never had to worry about being someone’s friend. 

“Hm.” Mercy seems like she wants to ask more questions, but she decides against it at the last second. “That is all, Roadhog. I will let you know if there are any further developments.” She gives him a weak smile as the door to the medbay slides open with a hiss. 

Genji and Hanzo walk in, the two of them arguing in Japanese. At least, Roadhog thinks they’re arguing. Hanzo has a stern look on his face and Genji keeps shaking his head and gesturing. Then again, the brothers usually are like that so Roadhog isn’t sure. As they realize that they have an audience though, they fall silent. 

Hanzo gives Mercy a shallow bow. “Hello. We are here for our appointments.” 

“Roadhog, if you do reach out to Junkrat… Please tell him that his actions will not be held against him. His safety is always our first priority.” Mercy turns and greets Hanzo and Genji, seemingly ignoring Roadhog. He knows a dismissal when he sees one and carefully gets off the examination table. It groans under his weight and he can see the look Hanzo gives him out of the corner of his eyes. 

Ignoring the two, Roadhog walks out of the medbay. He’s careful to give them a wide berth. He can’t tell if Hanzo likes him or simply tolerates him and after Junkrat’s meltdown the two have stayed away from each other on purpose. Genji, on the other hand, downright disturbs Roadhog. Even though he isn’t an omnic, he looks enough like one that Roadhog can’t bring himself to trust him. 

Genji should be dead. Even if the circumstances around his accident are unknown, it’s obvious that anyone who has what remains of their body encased within a high-tech mechanical suit is not in good shape. Roadhog has no intentions of killing him, he doesn’t care enough about it to put himself in that position, but he doesn’t like Genji either. 

Roadhog figures that anyone who’s noticed doesn’t care. It isn’t like he’ll be at Overwatch that much longer anyway. At least, that’s the plan. 

Junkrat has always hated plans.

—— 

On the island of Gibraltar, one Jamison Fawkes, more commonly referred to as Junkrat or “that insane asshole,” is pacing back and forth. He does a great deal of that and recently it has become his main method of helping himself think. He’s always thinking to some extent, mostly wondering how to make other things explode, but right now he has more on his mind than usual. 

For one, his impending doom and death and gloom and all that fun stuff. It’s weighing down on him more than he thought it would. He has a few very valid and important reasons to avoid death, for one. For all that might be wrong with him, Junkrat has never really wanted to die. He’s reckless and stupid and he blows things up without worrying about his own safety as much as he should, but that doesn’t mean he has a deathwish. 

He especially doesn’t want to die from his childhood of radiation poisoning knocking on his door and telling him that his time is up. 

The second thing on his mind is directly connected to the first, in that his best chance for survival is Overwatch. He doesn’t trust them. He thinks the doctor has something up her sleeve and the cowboy is waiting for an excuse to shoot him and the music man is far too cheerful to be sane. 

But Junkrat doesn’t want to die. 

He doesn’t want to die. 

He doesn’t want to die. 

Only, the last time he was in the base, he had a fit and ran out like his pants were on fire. No, not like they were on fire. If they had been, he would have been much calmer about the shit show. 

Point is, he doesn’t trust them, he doesn’t like them, he doesn’t want to go back. But he needs to if he wants to get the good doctor’s magical mystery cure. 

Well that and one other thing. Roadhog is there. Junkrat misses the big lug, even if he hardly spoke and he was grouchy and ate at least half of Junkrat’s food at any given moment. It’s weird to think that Junkrat misses someone but if he were going to pick someone to miss…

He could have done worse. Possibly. Maybe.

Junkrat sighs and shakes his head. He’s squatting in a small cottage by the sea that’s been abandoned for the season, its owners off doing whatever they do during the winter. It doesn’t matter. They’ll come back and their house will be in one piece. Probably. Junkrat’s got a few traps set up but, really, he knows if Overwatch wants to come grab him that he can’t stop them. So he isn’t putting in as much effort as he usually would. 

“This is stupid, stupid, stupid!” Junkrat tells himself. He glances at the shiny kitchen counter. A stack of empty bean cans are balanced precariously. If he so much as breathes too hard in its direction, it’ll come tumbling down. “What’s the matter, Junkrat? Why so serious? Haha, hahahaha!” He bursts into laughter, curling in on himself, and slams his hand against the wall. 

When he straightens, he tugs at his hair. A few strands come loose, tangling in his fingers. He feels his eyes flick from side to side, taking in the well-lit room. He can’t stand the darkness, can’t stand it just like he can’t stand the silence. Junkrat turns the radio on, flipping through stations until something classical and old was playing at full volume. He’s lucky there’s no neighbors to put in a complaint. 

He doesn’t feel very lucky. 

Suddenly, he kicks at the kitchen counter. It shakes but the bean cans stay in place. He feels the vibrations up and down his leg and he feels a moment of anger at the fact that they’re somehow more stable than he is. A rush of red hot rage hits him all at once and he punches at the cans, grabbing them and tearing them apart with his bare hands. The thin metal isn’t easy to rip apart but he’s stronger than he looks and he’s furious and he doesn’t even notice when he starts bleeding.

When he’s done, he’s surrounded by bean cans and his hands are cut up and stinging. Junkrat winces, looking at them. He feels his chest clench and then, without warning, he feels his eyes burn. 

“No, no, no,” he murmurs, backing away until he hits another object. The fridge is cold against his back but it does nothing to calm him down as he sees the red pooling and dripping from his hands. Junkrat shakes his head and grabs at his shoulders but that only makes it worse. There’s blood on him and he’s shaking and he just wants it to end. 

He falls asleep sitting there, the cuts on his hands slowly clotting, his uneasy dreams unwelcome companions. 

Junkrat wakes up several hours later, hearing someone in the other room. His grenade launcher is there, as is his pack. He was stupid to leave it there, to fall asleep without them within arm’s reach, but now it’s too late. He stands, ready to fight regardless, when he sees who it is. Junkrat lets out a sharp peel of laughter, shaking his head and pointing with one hand. The other slaps at his knee. 

He ignores the sting of his cuts, still relatively fresh. His visitor remains silent.

“Is this who the mighty Overwatch sends after me? Trying to convince me to come back, huh? Well you can tell the good doctor that her efforts are for naught, because I ain’t coming back! And I especially ain’t coming back with a good-for-nothing omnic fucker,” Junkrat shouts, narrowing his eyes as the last few words escape.

Across from him, standing on the tile with his arms by his sides, is Genji. He doesn’t seem to be armed but that hardly matters. He’s not human, not anymore, not in Junkrat’s book. He’s a living weapon. Junkrat seen him train, knows that he can outrun a small car and can rip metal in half with his bare hands. 

And that’s without his sword or the shurikens he keeps in one arm. 

“Junkrat. You need to come back to the watchpoint. Angela can help you and if you do not get aid, you will die,” Genji says, as if all that isn’t something Junkrat already knows. 

“You want me back so you can sedate me and subjugate me, mess with my head until it’s just whipped cream,” Junkrat replies, narrowing his eyes and pressing back against the fridge. Genji’s about ten meters from him, more than close enough to attack if he wants. Junkrat doesn't feel pinned, not yet, but his eyes keep flitting back and forth and he tries to tell if anyone else is here. 

He doesn’t think he can hear someone else, but why would Genji be here alone? Surely he has backup, ready to jump in if it looks like Junkrat is going to blow the whole house to smithereens. 

Not like he can, all things considered. He doesn’t have a detonator or that much TNT and he has just enough will to live that blowing up the house sounds like a stupid idea, but it’s still the kind of thing he’d do. 

_Where is Roadhog?_ Junkrat wonders. _Why isn’t he trying to get me back to Overwatch?_

It doesn’t make sense to send the almost-omnic instead of his friend and it makes Junkrat even more suspicious. He realizes that Genji was saying something, that he was trying to convince Junkrat that things are okay, but it had gone in one ear and out the other. 

“Listen, pal, I don’t care what you and the doctor want. I don’t trust you as far as I could throw you. I know something’s up, I ain’t stupid.” Junkrat blew a raspberry just to prove a point. What point, he’s not certain, but a point. “If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die free.” 

“You do not need to die at all,” Genji argues. He crosses his arms. It’s a little absurd, seeing what is possibly one of the most advanced pieces of technology standing in a normal kitchen trying to tell Junkrat to come back to an illegal organization that may or may not be trying to save his life. 

If this was a film, Junkrat’s pretty sure it would be a comedy. 

“I’m not buying what you’re selling,” Junkrat insists. 

“Angela has found a donor for you. She says that the procedure can happen within twenty four hours of you returning to the base. It will almost certainly help you feel better.” Genji crosses his arms. Junkrat wishes he could see the man’s face. It’s hard to tell if he’s lying when his face his covered, expression hidden behind chrome and neon lights. “You can die if you wish, but you are leaving behind someone who does not deserve that.”

“You don’t care about me or Roadhog, _chum,_ or else you woulda stopped that doctor from giving me crazy pills.” 

“You do not trust Angela. You do not trust anyone but Roadhog. But you care for him deeply and you do not want to leave him—”

Junkrat lets out a shrill laugh, almost doubling over with the effort. He wipes at his mouth and realizes that the red is blood, but he can’t bring himself to care. “Lookie here, someone who thinks he can get into my head. Tick tock, tick tock, your time is up! I’m done talking to you.” Junkrat goes to leave, to where he isn’t sure but this is only an island — maybe he can swim to the mainland? — but Genji moves quicker and blocks the exit. 

A scowl settles on Junkrat’s face and his fingers itch for his explosives. He wants to test just how durable that metal shell is. Surely it can’t hold up to a metric shit ton of TNT. 

“I do not need to get into your head to know what you are going through, Junkrat. You are not the only one whose body has failed him.” Genji slowly reaches up to his head and pushes an invisible button. There’s a hiss as steam releases and he pops off the visor, revealing scarred skin and bright eyes. “Angela is a good doctor. She works to save people, even if they do not want to be saved, but believe me. Death is not the easier option.” 

Genji replaces the metal, turns his back on Junkrat, and leaves. 

Junkrat lets out a shaky breath, falling to the floor and breathing heavily. His chest hurts and his head throbs and his eyes are sore. It takes him a moment to realize he’s crying. 

The next day, he takes his things and returns to the base.


End file.
